


51:49

by oonaseckar



Category: 50/50 (2011), Inception (2010)
Genre: Cancer, Death, Healthcare, Illnesses, M/M, Major Illness, Mentions of Cancer, Terminal Illnesses, socialized medicine
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-29
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-29 16:18:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19403950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oonaseckar/pseuds/oonaseckar
Summary: Eames is terminally ill, Arthur is efficient and frantic, Cobb is pissed.   (In both senses.)





	51:49

**Author's Note:**

> Also owes something to 50:50, nice little flick, shame about the misogyny.

"...and with an aggressive course of chemotherapy, and possibly some tightly scheduled radiation treatments, I'd hope to see sufficient shrinkage and management of the tumor by December in order to schedule surgery. If you'd prefer to manage your bookings for chemo yourself, we have quite a useful online appointments service so that you can maximize your own convenience while ensuring that..."

Eames tunes in and out, of the stupid clever fucking doctor and his monologue that deserves awards for Worst Bedside Manner 2016. He blames Cobb. 

Cobb made him make this appointment in the first place, on account of he said he was sick of hearing Eames complaining about his back-ache first thing in the morning, and last thing at night, and when there was an east wind, and when it was too hot, and after a one-nighter, and during a dry period, and... Okay, Cobb has a point. His back has been aching all the fucking time, lately, and maybe he isn't quite as much the stoic Jeeves-type as you'd think, for a Brit.

So he'd given in, and called his doctor's office, and via long involved back-and-forths and discussions, and several appointments with different people, and a course of osteopathy that had aggravated the pain to a frightening degree... He's here now. It took a while, to find someone competent and effective, who could diagnose and treat what's been ailing Eames. But Dr Yusuf comes highly recommended. He is the guy, and all other oncologists specializing in spinal tumors shall bow before him, apparently.

It seems like he's finally found that special someone, a bearded middle-aged man in a white coat who has offered him about thirty seconds' worth of eye contact in all three of their appointments combined. Not out of social discomfort, Eames thinks, so much as oblivious professional absorption and detachment, inattention. He could find it in himself to wish that he hadn't found _anyone_. Oblivion would have been quite blissful in comparison, even if apparently it would also have been quite short, before collapse and death.

He's taken in hand by the doctor's office nurse – not literally, unfortunately, as she's quite hot, but for the formalities. Sorting his insurance documents – which makes him utterly wistful about the dear old NHS, also not long for this world in greasy Dave's hands. Say what you like about the old gal, and never mind the half mil still in his accounts from the last job – at least socialized medicine makes for less sodding paperwork at the point of entry.

Before he'd left he'd nipped back into the doctor's office, evading the nurse with an aerial fly-past while her attention was distracted. There was something he'd forgotten to ask. And Doctor Yusuf's expression, when Eames coughed politely, and stood in front of his desk in a way that could only be ignored for so long, wasn't offended. Amazed, perhaps, but not offended.

"You didn't tell me exactly what my chances are," Eames said baldly. Perfectly reasonable question, after all, he considered. Could make all the difference, between sweating and suffering through months of chemotherapy and radiation, toughing it out through really egregiously disagreeable quasi-poisonings and tests of endurance. And, on the other hand, deciding that with the odds on offer, the game couldn't possibly be worth the candle, and one might really as well get sodding rat-arsed, work one's way through five hundred dollars' worth of blow, hire a few hookers for a Vegas weekend... and blow one's brains out, as a grand finale.

He raises one eyebrow at the doc, and waits. It's clear enough. No-one could possibly need any clarification, on that. And Doctor Y. shrugs, takes a file from the side of his desk and flicks through it, pursing his lips. He looks like he's marking an Olympic dive out of ten, and like he's the bitchiest most unsatisfiable judgy motherfucker on Earth. "Fifty-one stroke forty-nine," he says, after a moment.

Yeah, that isn't quite the figure Eames has braced himself for. It's, well, some way worse. But still... "And by that, you mean fifty-one percent likelihood of a favourable outcome, doctor, am I correct?" he raises his eyebrows at this passionless droid of an oncologist, but his sangfroid and casual disinterest isn't quite as bone-deep as usual. He can still fake it well enough, though. He isn't British for nothing, pal.

The doctor looks back at him impassively, and raises an eyebrow too, like it's a bloody card game. I see your eyebrow raise, I raise you an eyebrow _too_ , and I'll throw in a faint sneer. There is the tiniest little pause. And Eames decides that he's rather busy, today, after all. He doesn't need to wait for an answer to that question.

"Don't forget to talk to the nurse about beginning a course of counselling," the doc calls after him, as he makes a swift exit. "Non-optional. It's part of our duty of care to all our patients." And that's that duty discharged, as far as he's concerned, presumably.

Eames doesn't need counselling. He needs a drink, and a time machine to go back twenty-four hours. And something small, fragile, delicate and expensive to break, immediately. (He needs his mum. But he deletes that thought.)

The nurse makes the counselling appointment for him, as he tries to leave, presses the bit of paper on him and threatens him with a reminder text and letter. Then he just gets out of there, and heads for the nearest bar.

***

he knows what forced conditional Stockholmed survival love is, and this isn't that.

You feel the same, I know you do, and I could be dead in three months and you won't do anything about it because of your goddamn professional ethics... He was stopped by a mouth, which is generally the best way to be stopped.

He discovers that Arthur is amazingly reserved and prissy in bed. Which is actually okay and more than okay. It's amazingly erotic: in the age of internet porn and everybody being on Grindr and anything – desperate – willing to do anything, _anything_ , for the sake of not being alone and being exactly the same as everybody else... It's incredible to fuck Mary fucking Poppins, when

a little bit of Arthur was preparing for survival, for a time when there'd be no Eames anymore, and a little bit of him hated Arthur for that.


End file.
